


rock the house

by webmenu



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (accidentally), Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Blowjobs, Face-Fucking, Falling For One Of Your Bandmates, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Piercings, Porn With Plot, Quickies, Trans Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), bassist martin, praise kink & size kink (in very small amounts)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27679940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webmenu/pseuds/webmenu
Summary: His lashes are thick with cheap drugstore mascara, and the product is smudged under his eye where he's made a few mistakes. Martin hasn't shaved in awhile, and Tim finds that the tiny bit of scruff looks good on him, frames his face in a nice way. He's got earrings in both ears, gold little symbols of anarchy. Tim takes a moment to count the freckles on his forehead. There are 18 of them, and they go all the way up into his hairline."Are you going to kiss me or not?""That's my favorite Thompson Square song," Tim tells Martin before pulling him in closer, licking his way into his mouth with enthusiasm.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 7
Kudos: 89





	1. load-in

**Author's Note:**

> this one goes out to the super fruit hell discord, full of the loveliest fruits ever!
> 
> * martin is cis and tim is trans (ftm) here; this isn't explored much beyond him mentioned to be getting wet.

There's about 35 minutes before live soundcheck, and another hour before Lead Archivist's first show of the tour.

Fans are already pulling up to the venue. Tonight, they're playing one of the smaller ones that they've played before, _Ale 6._ It's common amongst people of the alternative scene in this area to arrive early. Their pre-shows are seen as events within themselves; the bar is open, as is the merchandise table, and slightly tipsy rock fans make for a chatty crowd. 

Lead Archivist doesn't have an opening act. (They never have and, in Tim's opinion, they never should.)

To remedy this, Sasha is playing a couple of songs from a personal playlist over the loudspeakers; first is a grungy piece by the illustrious Oliver Banks, of whom both Jon and Sasha have wanted to collaborate with for a long time, and then a strange cover of Carrie Underwood's _Before He Cheats_ by TWIN, an excitable two-part noise band devised of Helen and Michael, two siblings who have never gotten along. 

_Hometown Blood_ starts to play, and Tim taps along to the tune on his thighs. It's a song by Mallcop, the notable alternative duo composed of Basira Hussain and Daisy Tonner — both of whom Jon has some controversies with, one of those disputes of which Tim encouraged — and some interested shouts abound. A handful of folks even start shouting the lyrics.

All in all, from what Tim can hear, it seems to be going over well out there. 

The band is taking it easy in the backstage lounge.

Jon and Sasha are chatting amongst themselves. Sasha is sat on the floor with her back pressed up against the black couch behind her. She's using her phone, propped up on a table in the middle of the lounge by an open mango White Claw, as a mirror, and is touching up her thick, sharp eyeliner. Jon is curled up behind her on the sofa drinking warm chamomile tea from a mug with their logo on it, humming to himself between sentences to warm up his voice.

What they're murmuring about, Tim's not too sure; they're being so quiet. He thinks he catches wind of some chatter about the upcoming Battle of the Bands, an event that they'll be attending down in Liverpool before the second leg of their tour. Everyone is always so boring before soundcheck.

He's sat on the opposite couch next to Martin, who's fiddling with his bass like it's the most interesting thing in the world. It very well might be. He's idly practicing the line for one of their encore songs that'll be replayed in a few hours time. 

Martin looks good like that. Doing what he does very idly. Maybe that's weird. What Tim means is that he's _attractive,_ very much so, and when he's doing absolutely nothing but plucking his little strings, it's more clear than ever.

Right now, he's dressed up in his show clothes, and those are always very flattering on him. Martin's in a _lot_ of obscure jewelry, oversized corduroy trousers, one of those dark compression gloves Sasha wears, the ones that stop his hands from cramping up while he plays, and a distressed band tee with the sleeves cut off. Tim likes it when Martin's shoulders are out — and, yeah, maybe that's definitely weird, — but it exposes his tattoo, a tiny space cadet with devil horns and a tail, as well as a massive amount of freckles. 

When Tim looks a bit closer, though, he notices that he looks a bit bothered, his brows creased a bit the way they do when he's getting lost in his own head. 

Jon tosses his head back to laugh at something Sasha says, loud and charming, and when Tim looks over to Martin, he's very obviously affected by it. His cheeks are tinged something fierce. 

"Martin," Tim leans over to stage-whisper, "you alright, handsome? You look like a fire hydrant."

Martin messes up his bassline, curses under his breath, and then restarts the whole song. "I'm okay, just, um, long day."

"Really?" Tim inquires, and gives him the once-over, biting at his lip ring. "Seems like more than that."

Martin shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and shifts the song he's plucking into something Tim's never heard before. It's something slow and monotonous. "I'm fine," he insists.

 _Right,_ so, Tim isn't an idiot. It's very obvious that he's worked up over something, and he probably has been all day. Tim, for half of a second, almost feels bad that he didn't notice earlier. It's most likely got something to do with Jon — it always does. He lets out a low whistle. 

Tim has learned not to worry himself with whatever Martin is caught up over, so as soon as he catches himself thinking about what Martin is bothered about, he wills himself to stop. Martin hates it when he pries, anyway, and he'll usually tell him if it's of too much importance.

Still, Martin's leg is bouncing so intensely that he can hardly keep his hands on the fretboard. His nails are painted a deep forest green. That's Tim's favorite color. 

He gets an idea. 

Tim leans farther into Martin's space, and tosses an arm over his shoulder. Martin relaxes into him a bit, like he's finally getting the opportunity to breathe. Hey, it's a start, right? 

"Maybe I can..." Tim begins to gesture nonsensically with his free hand and hopes Martin gets the hint. He doesn't. Tim just flat out inquires, "maybe we can blow off some steam before the show."

Martin stops playing his bass so abruptly that Jon and Sasha look up. 

"Everything okay?" Sasha asks from across the lounge, amused, and Martin nods so frantically that Tim's afraid his head might fall off. Sasha doesn't seem to buy it, but she's too immersed in her eyeliner to care. It's grown about two sizes since Tim first saw her put the pen to her eye.

"Yeah, we're fine!" Tim's a good liar. He makes up a poor excuse, something along the lines of, "We're okay, s'just that Martin left his bass tuner in the room, we're going to go get it." Sasha and Jon both make some sort of noncommittal noise.

Tim smirks. They're so alike that it's funny.

"Sure," Jon says, not looking up from the little spoon in mug, swirling on it's lonesome. He sounds truly, sincerely indifferent, and Tim wonders if that bothers Martin. "Be back before soundcheck."

Tim limbers up from the couch with some newfound vigor. Finally, something to do around here. As soon as he's standing, he makes a show out of stretching and yawning. (Is he really Timothy Stoker if he doesn't make a show out of _yawning?)_ He glances to Martin, still sitting at his side, looking up him with some undistinguishable gaze. 

"Are you coming?" Tim asks him in a hushed voice, just in case Martin's uneasy. "You don't have to. There's always next time. Just— if you want to, and if you want me, you can have me."

"Oh, I'm coming," Martin confirms definitively. "I made up my mind about that the moment you asked." He places his bass in the stand beside him. "Lead the way."

Something exciting starts to build in the pit of his stomach. "Brilliant."

* * *

It's easy to slip out of the stagedoor. The venue is only a short walk away from the motel that they're staying at.

Tim's not intoxicated, but he takes Martin by the hand and drags him along the sidewalk like he is. _Slow down,_ Martin tells him, and _wait up,_ and he murmurs under his breath when Tim yells back something snarky like "pick up those heavy ass combat boots of yours and _march,_ Blackwood!"

He thinks, at some point, that maybe he should be a little quieter. It crosses his mind briefly that a fan or two could see them right now. Someone already might have. Tim quickly dispels the thought because quite frankly he doesn't care that much. 

There's an odd little flare in the pit of his chest that's making him act like this around Martin. He can't figure out what it's called just yet.

When Martin catches up to Tim, they're about there. They slip in through a side-door and Tim has the nerve to get handsy in the stairway. They've only got one flight to walk, and Tim can't even keep it to himself for two minutes.

"Stop that," Martin laughs, flustered, when Tim pulls him closer by the belt loop on his trousers to give him a quick peck on the lips on the second to last stair.

By some good grace, they're able to make it to their room. It's a small thing with only two queen-sized beds; you can tell which one belongs to Jon and Jon alone, due to the cleanliness of the surface and the lack of makeup stains on the white pillowcases. Oppositely, you can tell which one belongs to Tim; there are so many t-shirts _everywhere._ Sasha has taken a plush chair in the living room, and Martin, the pullout couch. 

Tim's sure that after tonight's show, the sleeping arrangements will change: Martin will be in Tim's bed, Tim will be asleep in the bathtub, Jon will pass out on the floor, and sleep won't even graze Sasha. 

Martin trips over one of her many, many heels on their way to the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ^_^


	2. load-out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very suddenly, he grows hyper aware of everything at once; the warmth of Martin as he's straddling him, his big hands resting firmly his waist, and the pierced cock between them, which twitches ever so slightly as Tim shifts to readjust himself. The dim light of the hotel room bounces off of Martin's piercing and glints in his periphery.
> 
> Tim croaks earnestly, "I think I might faint."

Martin sits on the edge of Tim’s bed and Tim sits right on top of him.

"Hey," Tim says, tossing his leg over the plush, warm plateau of Martin's thigh. Martin slides one of his hands behind him, holding him in place in his lap by the small of his back. Tim makes a weak little noise as he readjusts. 

"Hi." Martin shoots back cheekily, and tucks a stray piece of Tim's hair behind his pierced ear. Tim rolls his eyes, shakes his head a bit at the cliché gesture, but only to prevent the smile growing on his face from looking too affectionately stricken. 

Tim ruts against Martin's thigh, and when Martin raises both of his eyebrows at him, he feels like he's going to soak right through his jeans.

Martin takes it upon himself to hold Tim's hips down, pressing the heat between his legs against his thigh. The pressure is a lot on it's own, but the lack of friction is getting him frustrated. Still, though, Tim doesn't try to do it again. He sticks his tongue out at Martin instead. 

Martin chuckles in response, soft and rolling, and something dangerous creeps upon Tim. It feels like he's standing at the edge of a cliff and any moment now, he's going to fall.

There's some sort of tension here. 

Messing around with Martin is always fun. That's all it's ever meant to be — teasing one another on stage, haphazardly getting off together between sets, fucking after shows — it's all in good fun. Fooling around is just what they do. They're friends, and that's what friends do, right? Keep each other entertained and such.

This should be another one of those moments. It _is_ another one of those moments, isn't it? This is just another time where they've decided to make themselves absent from the rest of the world and indulge in one another. 

But it's never felt like this before. So weighty, so major, so consequential. 

To Tim, it feels like the first time they're doing this. He's not nervous, nor is he particularly scared. He just feels young again, riled up with his emotions on his sleeve, and also a bit confused. 

He doesn't know where to put his hands. If Martin is picking up on this, he isn't showing it. 

Tim, in retaliation to his own feelings, grabs Martin by the jaw. It's a gentle grasp, much more tender than he intends it to be. He watches the way Martin's eyes flutter shut and his heart jumps in his chest. He's just so _handsome._

His lashes are thick with cheap drugstore mascara, and the product is smudged under his eye where he's made a few mistakes. Martin hasn't shaved in awhile, and Tim finds that the tiny bit of scruff looks good on him, frames his face in a nice way. He's got earrings in both ears, gold little symbols of anarchy. Tim takes a moment to count the freckles on his forehead. There are 18 of them, and they go all the way up into his hairline. 

"Are you going to kiss me or not?" 

"That's my favorite Thompson Square song," Tim tells Martin before pulling him in closer, licking his way into his mouth with enthusiasm. 

The kiss is deep, slow but hungry, and Tim’s feeling warm from head to toe. He wonders if Martin can feel it, the slight claminess of his hands, the slight eager twitch of his hips. His heart feels like it’s going to jump right out of his chest. 

"Good," Martin sighs quietly into his mouth as they part briefly to breathe. He nips at Tim's bottom lip encouragingly, and then repeats himself, "that's good."

Tim leans back in; their lips meet again, and Martin takes charge in deepening it as Tim's hands wander. 

Tim has always been curious. He likes to learn. Granted, he's seen a lot of Martin's body. Tim knows that he has dimples on the small of his back, a long scar on his calf from a rollerblading incident back in grade school, and a pattern of beauty marks on his inner thigh that, when connected, sort of looks like The Big Dipper. 

Though, there's nothing quite like _touching_ him. Martin is Tim’s favorite person to feel. He likes the generous weight on his sides, enjoys running his hands along the curly patch of hair below his navel, and sometimes, if it’s not too weird in the heat of the moment, he likes holding his hand. They’re calloused at the tips, because Martin doesn’t play his bass with thimbles, and they fit in his own so well. 

Tim's hands hit the buckle of Martin's belt and he tugs at it.

"Let's get these off," Tim breaks their embrace to say.

The belt, Tim finds shortly, is impossible to unfasten. It's a novelty thing, a dark brown pleather with silver studs down the sides. The buckle is scruffed up and vintage-looking, embellished with the words _'BOSTON RUIN.'_ It's stupid. Tim wonders where he got it from. After a couple of seconds of struggling with it he begins to pout. 

"Martin," he whines. 

Martin, clearly amused, goes, "Alright, alright. It's like this, let me show you."

He places his hands on top of Tim's and they undo it together. He tries to ignore the blooming heat in his chest as he's being guided. 

Apparently you're meant to twist the goddamn buckle to undo the belt but how in the hell was Tim supposed to know that? 

His boxers are printed. They have _The Great Wave of Kanagawa_ on them. It's so ridiculously _Martin_ that Tim scoffs fondly under his breath. Tim begins to palm at him through the fabric and Martin bites his lip.

With nimble fingers, Tim takes Martin out from his boxers and—

Oh. 

Martin is pierced.

"When," Tim's tongue darts out to wet his lips. He uses the tip of his finger to trace the vein on the underside of Martin's cock all the way up to the head, nudging the Prince Albert with his knuckle, "when did you get this?" 

Martin hums under his breath. "Last month," is his answer.

Last month.

Tim tries to think back to any time that Martin's been pointedly missing in the past few weeks — and can't pin down a single moment where Martin has been completely unaccounted for, his whereabouts amiss.

Do Sasha or Jon know about this? Maybe one of them went out and got pierced with him, Tim's thoughts say, and that makes sense, because then he would have an alibi. Martin has paired off with both Jon and Sasha for hours at a time for reasons that Tim had never thought to ask about. 

The subsequent thought of _'why didn't anyone tell me?'_ is knocked out of the ballpark by pure arousal at the thought of Sasha with a frenum or, Christ, Jon with a Princess Diana.

Tim draws several conclusions at once. First of all, this is probably why Martin wouldn't let him give him head for a couple of weeks. Second of all, Tim feels like _screaming._

It must show on his face, his titillation. Martin knows by now just how to play him, how to make Tim work himself up like this. He looks like he's just gotten away with murder, lips turned up at the corners. A sharp smugness sits upon his face and it looks like it belongs there and that’s the thing that gets Tim right in the gut.

Martin is outrageously attractive when he's like this, confident in himself enough to get a bit arrogant.

"Tim?" Martin asks, low and teasing.

Very suddenly, he grows hyper aware of everything at once; the warmth of Martin as he's straddling him, his big hands resting firmly his waist, and the pierced cock between them, which twitches ever so slightly as Tim shifts to readjust himself. The dim light of the hotel room bounces off of Martin's piercing and glints in his periphery.

Tim croaks earnestly, "I think I might faint."

 _God,_ he's never been so desperate to get something in his mouth in his life. When he goes to tell Martin this, it dies out before it hits the air. 

"How about you get me off, Tim?" Martin suggests, and oh God. His voice is soft but the look on his face is hardly hesitant, barely sheepish. The motel room is quiet, and so is the street beyond the window beside them, and when his breath catches in his throat, Tim is sure that Martin can hear it. 

"Yeah. Yes," Tim answers. "of course, yeah, I think I'll do that, actually." 

Tim hastily sinks between Martin's legs, bringing his baggy trousers and his underwear down with him. _He looks so handsome like this,_ Tim thinks. 

Martin is half stiff and already leaking a bit. Tim wraps his fist around Martin's cock and swipes his thumb over the head of it. His hand barely fits over the girth of it all. Martin is not particularly long, but he's thick from base to tip, sizeable enough to fill up all of Tim's mouth, and he really, _really_ can't wait. 

Tim gives him a few loose, dry tugs before delving down, taking as much as Martin's cock as he can in his first go. He strains to take all of it. 

"Tim," Martin groans, low and long.

They stay like that for a bit before Tim decides to move, letting his mouth get used to being so stuffed. Martin doesn't seem to mind. He's completely hard, now, and Tim can feel it. He bobs his head a few good times before Martin reaches down and pushes his fringe to the side for him. Now that he can see, Tim takes the opportunity to gaze up at him, eyes wide and imploring as he comes up to catch his breath, licks messily along Martin's slit, and plummets back down.

"Good, just like that." Martin's words are hardly above a breath, and it does strange things to Tim, "Keep looking at me like that."

Tim can't help himself; he moans.

Martin bucks his hips, just once, with a harshness that makes Tim choke. Martin gasps and he sounds equal parts aroused and apologetic. His firm grip on Tim's shoulders loosen entirely. "Sorry!"

Tim pulls his mouth off of Martin's cock with an obscenely wet pop, never breaking eye contact, and doesn't stop working him in his fist. 

Tim's jaw is loose and he knows that he looks messy, lips coated in spit and precum. He hopes that he's just as pretty as a sight as Martin is being for him right now; loose curls are pasted to his forehead with a nice layer of sweat, and he's flushed all the way down to the collar of his band tee. His eyes are unfocused, like he doesn't know where to look. 

"Sorry," Martin tells him again. "I— um, the piercing is really sensitive. When you made some noise it sort of—"

When Tim tilts his head expectantly, as though he already knows what Martin'll say next, it dawns on him. His face falls from contrite to mildly appalled. "You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

"Not really. S'alright though," Tim reassures him, and works up the energy to give him a crooked, reassuring grin, "I liked that. You can do it again, if you'd like."

Martin makes this meager, punched out sort of noise, and Tim's heart flares in his chest. 

"Are you sure it's okay? Do you want me to?" Martin questions, though it seems like he's thinking about sliding back between Tim's lips as he speaks.

"I do. I want you to." Tim assures him, because it's true. 

He wants Martin to use him more than anything, wants his heavy cock between his lips and hitting the back of his throat, wants Martin to take charge however he deems fit. Tim thinks about how the two metal ends of the Prince Albert will feel against his tongue, and wonders if Martin would hold Tim down on his dick while he's all the way at the base of him, nose pressed up against his warm, soft stomach, and keep him there, fucking shallowly against his tongue. 

Tim hopes that he will. 

He wants it. 

A shudder ripples through him. He is definitely sure of his choice, though maybe he's getting ahead of himself. He sounds like pure gravel when he says, "I can take it. All of it, anything you want to give me, I can take it."

Martin swallows and nods, sort of frantic. "Okay, yeah," he breathes.

Tim gives him one more innocent smile before he puts his mouth back around Martin.

Martin gives an experimental lift of hips, and they stutter a bit as he pulls back out. _He's reluctant,_ Tim notes, _and he's stalling._

It's sort of sweet, the way Martin's being careful, but Tim wants to ache. Tim wants to drool. He moans something gratuitous as Martin is all the way down his throat again.

Martin's hands find their way to the nape of Tim's neck, and he's in trouble now, isn't he? Tim's pulse starts to quicken. When he comes up for air, Martin snatches at his hair and shoves him back down.

Tim stops thinking.

Martin fucks up into his mouth with no remorse. Tim realizes, eventually, that he doesn't have to do much. He lets his jaw go absolutely slack, sticks his tongue out as far as it can go, and lets Martin grip at his undercut, grabbing handfuls of hair at the base of his skull to angle him just right. It toes the line of pain and pleasure, and Tim wonders if Martin's doing it on purpose or if he's just unaware of his strength. Every time Tim lets his eyes fall shut, Martin tugs. All of the rings on his left hand hurt his scalp the most — they’re all sharp and big. The third time it happens, Tim takes it upon himself to hollow his cheeks.

Martin is whispering strings of praises like they're hymns, things that make Tim feel like the most accomplished man in the world. At some point, he even gets to petnames — _doing so well, dear,_ and things like that. 

Tim wants to touch himself so desperately. He’s vaguely aware of it, the way he’s practically dripping in his jeans, but somehow it’s background noise privy to Martin in his mouth, Martin’s hands in his hair, Martin’s vanilla scented cologne, _Martin, Martin, Martin._

When Martin thrusts so hard that his Prince Albert hits the softest part of his mouth, the palate all the way in the back, Tim makes a strong noise. Martin seems to catch the hint; he does it once, twice, three times, and suddenly, Martin is getting loud now, too.

"Close, Tim, I'm—" Martin begins to say. His thrusts get sloppy, losing precision. 

Martin gasps, soft — he's never been loud, not really — and spills over into Tim's mouth.

He comes in spurts, and it's so much. Martin fills Tim's mouth up, and when Tim pulls off to swallow, Martin still has some more left in him. It's nothing that Tim can't clean up himself. Tim works Martin through it, takes liberty in his strokes, starting at the base and twisting his way up. Martin is slick in his fist, covered in his own cum and saliva and he shudders when he's done. 

"Need a moment," Martin explains, chest heaving, and then says, in a great act of contradiction, "come here."

 _Okay,_ Tim tries to say, but he licks the little bit of cum off of his bottom lip instead. Martin watches him do so, and then screws his eyes shut so tightly that it looks like it hurts. 

Tim stands very abruptly from his spot between Martin's thighs only to fall forward onto Martin's broad chest with a _thump._ Martin loses all of the air in his body and Tim laughs. 

"Was that okay?" Tim asks. He knows that Martin is going to say yes. He always does. But when Martin peeks one eye open and smiles the warmest goddamn grin Tim thinks he's ever seen, his heart plummets. 

Oh, Tim is in _trouble,_ isn't he? He shuts his eyes and breathes in through his nose. 

Look at him, making things complicated.

He clears his throat. 

"Do you want to..." Martin starts to ask him after a bit. He's caught his breath and doesn't feel so weak anymore; when Tim opens his eyes again he’s already put himself away, though his fly is down. Tim reaches forward to help him out. 

Martin raises an eyebrow. “Oh?” 

“I’m zipping up your trousers, you git,” Tim shoots back, buttoning Martin back up at the waist. “All good.”

Tim lets out a quiet groan when one of Martin's hands find their way to his inner thigh and then wraps almost entirely around it, edging dangerously close to the heat between his legs. Tim swats at his hand playfully.

Martin chuckles. "Sorry. Did I get you that worked up?" he asks, even though they both know the answer.

"Yes," Tim lets him know anyway, "and if you touch me right now, I'll burst."

Martin looks him up and down with a healthy amount of exaggeration. "Well, I can't promise that I'm not thinking about it."

Tim smiles, something huge and goofy and absurdly juvenile. He covers his mouth with the palm of his hand so that Martin doesn’t see it. “Shut up. Come on, we have to get back to Ale.”

Martin leans back completely, adjusting himself a bit on the bed to let his head hit the wooden board behind him with a _thunk._ He closes his eyes. "I don't wanna."

“Martin!” 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stoker. Martin Blackwood can’t come to the phone right now. Why? He’s dead.” Martin tells him, “You sucked the life out of me!”

“Alright, so, listen. No— stop that, uncover your ears and listen to me. We’re _really_ going to be dead if we’re late for soundcheck. Jon can and will kill the both of us.” Tim tries to appeal.

He makes an attempt to remove himself from Martin’s chest, but finds that his arm is wrapped snug around his waist, keeping him in place. He could die like this, actually. Tim briefly entertains the thought of just laying here on top of him, vaguely sticky and chasing this new high. 

“Ugh,” Martin says. 

“Also, it’s your fault for surprising me with the piercing,” he adds, “of which I have many questions about.” 

Martin seems to think about it for a bit, and then he sighs dramatically. “Okay. Let’s head back. Do you need gum?” 

“Obviously.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ^_^


End file.
